Riding The Subway

Riding the subway gives me all these weird sensations.

I mean, you'll probably be familiar with the first one:

that sort of uneasy, tense, nervous feeling.

This sensation hits me the most when I realize I'm

commingling with the tattered;

the lower class.

Every miscreant

and ragamuffin

the cold streets

have, they're sitting around me;

they're in my

presence

at this very moment.

Uhh, I hate this sensation.

But when this 1^st sensation set's in I have

to act fast because

even showing a little sign of fear

on a subway is enough to incite violence,

and hysteria on a subway

is a fast-burning fire.

A fast-burning fire of fear

is what it's called,

sometimes.

But what ever you call it,

it's always around this

part of my subway voyage

that I experience

the second one,

the second subway sensation:

the artificial high of

smoking crack cocaine

out of a spoon

After that sensation the rest of the train ride
is actually pretty good.

 

Matchbox Bushido

I want to bring my sword to school

but mom says I shouldn't

do it, even if the bullies

are bigger and scarier than

me; cause it's illegal.

She says I need to use my WORDS!

I need to stand DEFIANT!

I need to start SHOUTING

on the PLAYGROUND!

So I wrote a speech of defiance one day

to stand up to them, and it sounded like this:

You think you can pummel Poseidon?

LORD OF THE SEA?

You haven't met me... apparently!

I'll skewer all your

shish-ka-bobs on souflaki spikes

and make a

Twizzler Pull n' Peel

out of your

soda-pop

you soda-jerk.

Not to mention I'll

cold shank

your face in a cemetery

just to bury your stench

with my socket-wrench

which I brought with me

for the express purpose of

fixing your ugly stupid... face!

It was awesome,

totally liberating,

and 100% earth shattering,

and when I yelled it

at the top of my lungs in defiance

I actually managed to drop the phone right before

that part about his ugly face.

I'd like to think I was being merciful,

like a Samurai.

 

Music Project

I got this idea,
while I was sitting
and thinking,
that I could become a country music sensation.
It was a kinda' spur of the moment thing.

I'd be called the Candy Coated Cowboy,
and what I'd do with my lyrics is...
compare woman to... ice cream.

A song like,
"You'll be my rocket pop!"
would be my greatest hit,
and I'd tour the world with
a guitar that I play with a spoon
hanging slack outa' my lips,
and people would follow me just to know where
I was going,
and when I got where I was going It would just be at some sort
of trailer home.
My fans would be 
disappointed often.

But they would love me deep down
for my whimsical charm.
They'd say things like,
"We appreciate your whimsical charm!"
To which I'd give a nod, or a tip of a hat
like I assume all country music sensations do.

I'd have a huge selection of hats too,
as I assume all country music sensations do.
It would be massive!
And towards the end of
every song I'd drive an ice cream truck
on stage; yeah that would just about be the best.

"Screwball Salvation," and "Chipwich Crush"
would see me a great deal of success after the initial board-buster smash
and "Sherbert Heartbreak" and "My Choco-Taco Emotions"
would be equally as heartfelt.


I'd sell out shows at expensive venues,
meet the president,
sign peoples things,
and when they'd ask me how I became so famous
I could give a modest response
that only I could give-
one that kind of means something
but kind of not-
something like, "much obliged,"
and then I'd just walk away,
as I assume all country music sensations do.

Tepid Coffee

I like my coffee semi-warm,

like jacket weather on an extended vacation.

Java that's been sitting around,

beats Joe

burning on a stove top-

I mean 'cmon, poor Joe,

he's been burning for hours.

Let the heretic off the fiery stake,

I want to peer into Galileo's genuine

telescope: a caffeine enriched magnifying lens

of amazing that goes down smoother

then silk.

Stuff that's been steeping for

an hour or two seems better to me,

than an instant tongue scalding

at four hundred degrees

So

I purposely wait for my cup to cool.

My mother will ask, "Why drink tepid coffee?"

But with so much excitement in the morning

already, it's nice that my

coffee can at least be relaxed.

 

Pasta Salad Love Song

Now I've never told this to anyone, but I love

Pasta Salad,

and, I'm going to be honest-

I'm going to slam the strainer on the table-

my love for Pasta Salad

transcends my love of most other things.

"Sorry Dad, you've been like a father to me,

but shut your box, my heart is of an al dente

tube-shaped variety and I have no need for

your cheese-sprinkled sentiments."

So I'm going to make this official.

I'm going to tie the strand because

Pasta Salad, you know all the

spaghetti straps in the world

couldn't arouse my curiosity

like a bowl of your bowties.

It's the truth.

And I know, I know,

you've heard this all before

and from guys with twice the spice,

but I'll change for you-

like the dirty pasta water

I will be boiled anew!

For instance, I know you don't like

the feel of steel wool on your dishes,

I'll work on that.

And you don't like it when I enjoy my lunch

at the local funeral home, that's fine-

I mean Three Bean Salad never cared

but that's all in the past!

I'm just looking forward

to spending my life with your saucy sense of style.

Wait, what?

You got a what in the oven?

Like a dinner roll?

Oh Pasta, baby, entree,

I don't understand!

We were going to go to Italy

together, meet the family.

We had this all planned out.

Okay, you know what?

It's okay, it's okay.

I'll tell you what I'm going to

go to the store, get some

smoked Gouda,

and when I come back we'll

sort all these Sponge Bob shapes

out. Because remember,

I've never told this to nobody,

but I love Pasta Salad.

 

Train Tracks

Wooden planks

under iron rails

sing a

Thomas the Tank Engine

whistle-song:

Woooooooooo!

I turn to my father,

and say:

"I want to be a train,"

he says,

"You want to be a train conductor."

So let's just back it up a second,

reverse the motion of this beast

.

Go and find the rusted river crossing,

the tinder-shelled bear trap of a bridge

with a browning underbelly

We cross with conviction

then splinter at the sight

of a hand-less man

unzipping his pants

with a hook.

Scrape the lint off your ticket,

implore these vinyl seats for clues.

How many drunken evenings

and afternoons with grandma

did you find?

As it turns out,

you're going somewhere

embedded in the ink of your dollar.

 

Hole In My Hoodsie Cup®

There's a hole in my Hoodsie Cup®,
the other half is gone,
the vanilla misses chocolate,
so I put this into a song.

There's a hole in my Hoodsie Cup®,
where your smile used to be,
the chocolate is all gone,
and the vanilla misses thee.

There's a hold in my Hoodsie Cup®
that all the world can see,
and when the flavors reunite again
you'll be holding hands with me.

Nature's Like My Moccasins

I've used you for an imaginary millennium

and you've yet to speak a work.

Your two holes in the bottom have found

you water to drink, and my feet fungus to grow.

It's been a daily chore of yours to taxi me around,

standing stoically rooted into the ground,

with nothing to do but scuffle onward

in search of dryer days.

I don't pick up my feet when I walk either

and so I would wonder if you'd hate me; if

I met you beneath the trees under the stars

and I asked you, would you date me?

I think you'd pass my little shoes,

you know too much about me:

my two left feet,

my knack of stomping toes

my inability to keep rhythm.

You know all about me.

So here's an idea!

I'll just keep you forever.

Put you on string around my neck.

You can be a charm, a thing of beauty

to be honored.

Your weather-beaten appearance

will be a testament to your

endurance.

 

Exercising My Rights

I exercise like I act in public,

which is the same way I listen to music,

and the same way I eat my breakfast cereal.

I go jogging like I'm an elastic band,

or some cooked pasta: loose and floppy.

I'll be flailing down the street

and I'll flop right into a stolen car.

The people will call me a hero,

but I'll just tell them I was exercising.

“Exercising your right to be a hero?”

They'll ask, but nope I'm just in spaghetti mode

until death do me part.

So I don't go running very often.

I like a bicycles rigid frame.

It keeps the flop on top, and

the pep in my step

as I zip around and

try to find my center

of gravity.

A Violent Passion

I'm violently passionate about coloring!

And all I want to do is color a banana with a top hat on right now!

But it's okay, I'll wait, I have self control, but I'm going to wait like

I wait for the toast in the morning: VIOLENTLY!

Or like I wait for my coffee to cool down:

ALSO VIOLENTLY!

I'll scald my tongue:

VIOLENTLY!

And then I'll eat my oatmeal:

VIOLENTLY!

And it will be dribbling out the side of my mouth because I just burnt my tongue.

I'll walk to school, with a violent swagger,

and I'll shoot change at the toll booth lady

with a pistol, I'll even go to the movies,

with a coloring book and violently color in the aisles!

Because nobody understands how I feel!

I'm violently passionate about coloring,

and nobody will teach me how to draw,

and that wouldn't be such a bad thing,

but there are only so many coloring books

that showcase bananas wearing top hats.

 

Interstate Bike Trip

All we had was One Trash Bag, and One Trash Bag

to hold all of your gear on a 10-day bike trip isn't that much.

We had One Trash Bag.

One trash bag for each of our sleeping bags,

which both fit inside one trash bag as if they were

meant to be stored there, as if they were meant to be stored in a trash bag.

We also carried our two rolls of toilet paper

in that same trash bag, as more comical support than anything else.

I mean, we weren’t stopping for anything.

But it didn't matter because we had one trash bag.

One glad, force flex trash bag while we traveled into the enigmatic

portions of Western Mass foot over pedal, over foot, over pedal.

We crossed into jerkwater towns, passed through a whole city of chairs,

and halfway through the day made a pit stop at an isolated chapel, on top of hill, that we figured

consisted of one gigantic insestual family. I'm sorry if your from Templeton, MA.

But we had only One Trash Bag, and that was enough

to keep our hope inside, all smooshed up against some stale Cheetos.

We proved that One Trash Bag could hold a lot more than face value

and we used the same Trash Bag to hold everything:

all of our stupid jokes,

all of our pictures,

and all the countless strange memories

that we only speak of to each other.

Yeah, we only brought

One Trash Bag strapped to the same

bike-rack that our vagrant mindsets

were, and in the end our trash bag evolved.

Not only did it hold our possessions

but our trash bag became them,

like water in an glass molding

to the shape of it's container.

It became our hope

it became our comical support

it may have became our Toilet paper at one point,

and it even became our sleeping bag

as we fell asleep inside it; our one trash bag,

on the first day of our journey,

ass-to-ass,

while the hurricane of

the century bore down outside.

1st Impressions And Cocoa Puffs

Snap judgments form

with a “Snap, Crackle, Pop! Rice Krispies!”

I mean just look at that guy!

There's something wrong with that guy.

Or how about that old widow, grieving, she is so forlorn!

I just know it.

What about that insurance salesmen feeding the birds?

Total ass-hole, right?

I know that's what I was thinking!

I mean you can look at anyone

and form an opinion.

Look at me instead!

Boat shoes, head-bands,

belt buckles, and plaid shirts?

I realize I must

exude some strange affiliation

with gang violence.

But I'm not all guns and I'm not all roses-

even though I appreciate the distinct smells that each provide.

A broad-rimmed hat on top of a rice paddy

worker usually indicates

an occupation in rice production,

but really examine this guy and you'll find

he's an outrageous individual.

He has a wife, two babies, and a penguin

who's learned how to fetch his family fish,

and that's pretty cool.

I wish I could be that cool.

 

Listen To The World

I feel like the world is trying tell you something

when you're driving in a car really really fast.

Something like:

“Why don't you enter yourself in a board game tournament."

"You're gonna win.”

Something like that.

I think when the world tells you something, you should listen to it.

Drop what you're doing and listen.

Don't think, just say, “Okay, I'm in.”

Do that, and you'll prosper.

Do that, and you'll win.

Do that, and the world will roll you a triple six 

in the Parcheesi portion of a board game tournament.

Do that and you'll take home the grand prize,

you'll be pretty pumped,

and you'll say, “Yes!”

"The world is awesome!"

"I cannot believe I just beat everybody at Parcheezi!"

"I don't even know how to play!"

 

Water Tower Day Job

At a water tower day job

your only task is to drain the water

built up in the storage silo

over the last couple of months;

and at a water tower day job

you don't ask questions.

It's just you and your scaffolding

at your water tower day job:

pull yourself up,

and repel on down.

Up and down,

up and down.

At your water tower day job,

you use that watch you were given

to time yourself, and you take your lunch

on your toilet office chair because

let's face it, the toilet's pretty comfortable

and you can't complain anyway.

At your water tower day job

you mean nothing to your boss,

who talks to you in these raspy

"Yeahs" and "God yeahs,"

when she's particularly excited.

Your always just a new face to her.

If I can offer your one strand of advice

at your water tower day job, it's don't

drink the water. Other than that, it has some perks.

Enjoy the view.

 

Bus Stations

Bus stations are interesting places

where you'll meet people that aren’t afraid

to talk to other people that are

afraid to talk to them.

It takes a certain level confidence

to affiliate yourself

when your unwanted, and even more

of this swagger when after 10 minutes

your audience looks scared beyond belief.

I imagine Gandhi must have felt this way.

Maybe Martin Luther King Jr.

All of those big names!

I bet they were all so scared

when it was their time to deliver

their message to the world.

Not this guy though,

not this Bus Station prophet,

because even though

I only met this guy briefly,

as he was getting dragged away,

this guy, this shoeless man put his head up to my

stomach in the middle of a crowded

terminal and said, “You ate Jesus!”

Back Alley Bendin' Ova'

A back-alley bendin ova' is what I observed,
and the man doing the bending was looking quite perturbed.
  
He was looking in a trash can,
was he throwing out some trash?
Well, whatever he was doing
I just couldn't look past the fact
that he was just a bendin' ova',
an action with mystique,
and so in hissecret alley path
I just had to take a peek-
'cause he was definitely up to mischief!
Up to danger!
Outa' whack!
And I could tell just by the angle
by which he seemed to arch his back
that he was bendin' ova' maniacally
to commit some sort of crime!

...But I guess I've just been bendin' ova' too
while I've watched him all this time.

Back Tattoo

While pining over a lost love

interest my friend divulged

his desire for one.

Talons brandished,

wings spread,

fangs doused

in wine of iron

and blood, he longed

for a dragon etched

mural-style across his back.

“And not just a dragon,”

he said,

“He'd be fighting a samurai;

and it would somehow

be more than that somehow,

you know?”

And it would be,

I saw it bleeding from

his discouraged eyes.

“Well that sounds awesome,”

I told him,

“I think it speaks to your character,

like conquering your demons and stuff.”

We both had a laugh over that one,

“You're too corny,” he told me,

“but that's what everybody likes about you.”

It was a heartfelt brotherly moment

I told myself I'd never forget

as we sipped our 40 ounce bottles of steel reserve

in a staples parking lot.